The Mole
Said he: "I'll dive deep in the Past,
And write a book of direful days
When summer skies were overcast
With smoke of humble hearths ablaze;
When War was rampant in the land,
And poor folk cowered in the night,
While ruin gaped on every hand -
of ravishing and wrath I'll write."
Ten years he toiled to write his book,
Yet he was happy all the while;
The world he willingly forsook
T live alone in hermit style.
In garden sanctuaried sweet,
Full favoured by the steadfast sun,
plunged in the Past, a life complete
He lived. . . . At last his work was done.
A worthy book that few would read
Yet all would praise - each precious page
Starred with some truth the rare would heed,
The vivid images of an age,
Then blinking, to the world again
He came a sage, remote, austere . . .
When lo! his eyes were smote with flame,
The wail of war was in his ear.
He shrank and sighed: "Oh can it be
These old iniquities prevail!
That sons of men are still unfree
And time repeats her sorry tale!"
So with a long sad gaze and last,
Seeking his secret garden nook,
He slipped again into the Past
To live - and write another book.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 1:04 min read
- 83 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABABCDCD EFEFGHGH IJIJXKXK XLKLAEAE |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 1,091 |
Words | 216 |
Stanzas | 4 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 8, 8, 8 |
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"The Mole" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 22 Dec. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/32593/the-mole>.
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